Law, Like Love
by Elske
Summary: My very first Psych fic. Slash, of course: Carlton/Shawn.  In which Lassiter learns you can only run so far so fast before you realise outrunning your feelings is futile.


Everyone has their own ways of dealing with stressful situations.

(Most of Carlton Lassiter's involve destruction.)

Usually any sort of internal turmoil is settled by a trip to practice shooting techniques, and no one ever bats an eye: that's relatively benign, after all, even - no, especially! - when you're an armed Officer of the Law and proper technique can mean the difference between life and death. This problem, though, this problem is too great for a simple trip to a rifle range.

Sometimes the only thing to be done is to break things - and this is the reason Carlton is glad he still has all of those fancy dishes from back when he and Victoria were married, because the more expensive something is the more satisfying it is to shatter. He grands fine china shards to dust under the heel of his right shoe, and sighs, waiting for his mind to clear. A memory of Victoria's tiny hand, cold against his arm is replaced by a memory of Shawn Spencer's fingers trailing warm paths across his face: he swears under his breath, bats another teacup off of its shelf to shatter to pieces on the kitchen floor.

If that fails (- and it has!), then there's always a turn to self-destruction. Alcohol hasn't ever failed him yet but the last unbroken decanter is empty so the only thing to be done is to search for a fresh bottle.

So Carlton palms up the keys to his car, shrugs back into his suitjacket - he is leaving the house, after all - and spares a passing though to cleaning up the mess he's made of his kitchen. He decides it will be less of a chore after the scotch. And it turns out there's a pub closer than the liquor store so this becomes his destination. With the drink in his hands, he thinks, this must be enough to relax and forget and find one blessed moment of calm.

But it isn't. Because the bartender has a crooked grin and eyes that are closer to green than brown and it's a horrible combination when your sole goal in life is to stop thinking of Shawn Spencer; a problem Carlton's had for years but it's suddenly been thrown into sharp relief, so difficult so pressing so impossible. (A darkened room and a polygraph machine: Spencer and O'Hara, secrets and lies raining from those damnably beautiful glib lips...) and Carlton scowls, drains the glass, motions for a refill.

It doesn't help, of course. Nothing does.

He's had just enough to drink: enough where the world goes golden and glowy around the edges, not enough to make his body falter when he walks, not enough to be too drunk to drive. He glides from the bar to the safe shell of his car, and it's there behind the wheel starting the ignition that he thinks of the last thing he has left to try: driving. To finf a deserted stretch of highway and drive too fast, exhilaratingly fast poetically fast beautifully fast in a way he hadn't done since he was seventeen - the last time he had this problem, a beautiful boy stuck in his head and there not being a damned thing he could do about it.

And it's nothing like when you're driving too fast on a case, he realises as his car flies, because that's legal and this isn't, and maybe he can push the speedometer fast enough to dislodge demons and leave thought behind in its wake. For the first time since getting his badge, Head Detective Carlton Lassiter is breaking the law and that - surely that! - should be enough to quiet the swirl of worries, bring him calm bring him truth bring him focus. (And it isn't enough.)

Carlton makes an illegal turn on an empty stretch of road, heads back into the city and doesn't realise what the next part of his plan is until he finds he's driven right to Shawn Spencer's apartment. He tries to tell himself he's only there to do some surveillance, and then he notices that there's a light still on and he can't help but get out of the car, ring the doorbell.

And then there's Spencer, all messy-haired and barefoot in a teeshirt and boxer shorts, calm and smiling, such a sharp contrast to Carlton himself. Those damned green eyes light up and he grins, "Lassiface!" by way of a greeting. "At almost two in the morning? Is this a case?"

"No, Spencer," Carlton near-growls. "No, I'm here to call bullshit," and it's coming out harsher and more uneven than he's intending. "Bullshit on you, bullshit on your being a psychic, bullshit on all of it."

Spencer tilts his head, puts one hand on one flannel hip, glares at Carlton. "Come on, Lassy, really?" He's grinning like he hasn't a care in the world. (Lassiter suspects he -doesn't-.)

"Fine. Prove it." Carlton closes his eyes for a moment, presses fingertips against his eyelids and the-truth-will-set-you-free. "I have a secret, Spencer. What is it?"

The younger man rolls his eyes with an exaggerated sigh. "It doesn't work like that, it's not a parlour trick like asking what number you're thinking of or when you'll win the lottery or what-word-am-I-thinking. We've been over this, Lassy."

"It's not like -that-." Every word sticks in his brain before he can voice it. "A secret, Spencer. An imperfection. A character flaw. The reason my wife wouldn't take me back no matter how many times I asked. The reason I go on fewer second dates than you. A -secret-."

"-Fine-." Spencer presses his hand to his head, closes his eyes. "You're an alcoholic?...You run an illegal street racing ring?...You're a groupie for the Grateful Dead, give me a hint...?"

Carlton growls a bit, low in his throat, and before he realises it he's taken a step forward and caught his hands in the cloth at the front of Spencer's shirt. "Fine," he mumbles, "a hint for you," and he tilts his head in, brushes his lips against the other man's in a soft tentative (worlds shattering life altering kiss.

And he draws back, but he doesn't let go of Spencer: the other man's eyes are still closed, but he breaks out into one of those infuriating grins. "You're in the closet? But you're doing a bad job of it, Lassy." And just when Carlton's about to let go and flee, it's Spencer who's kissing him, sharply insistently with flashes of tongue: he wraps his arms around Carlton's waist and pulls him closer so their bodies are flush against one another in the doorway.

And then Spencer's not kissing him anymore, but tilting his head to whisper in his ear: "Carlton," every syllable all drawn out and breathy, "Why didn't you tell me sooner?" And Carlton's shivering all over like that seventeen year old boy he was a lifetime ago in the backseat of that college guy's car and when he feels Spencer's teeth on his earlobe he's willing - perhaps - to concede the point that maybe he's a little bit psychic after all. He whimpers and grips Spencer closer, kisses him again.

A voice, familiar, from within the apartment. "Shawn, is everything okay?" and both men freeze. O'Hara, Carlton thinks, and the only thing to do is flee so he shoves Spencer away and runs for the safety of his car, heedless of the other man's imploring him to stay.


End file.
